As you approach this small stall, the pungent odor of fish somehow grows stronger than you thought possible to exist, even in Tear. The man standing there has what can only be described as a defiantly apologetic look permanently etched into his face. You decide to find out quickly what the stall has to offer before retreating back to your rented room and burying your face in your snuffbox for the rest of the evening. Just then, the tall fool, who is the one actually emitting the stench, shrieks at the top of his lungs at you, or as you pray to The Creator, no one in particular:
“THREE DSTs FOR BARTER! THEY HAVE NERRY A SCRATCH NOR STAIN UPON THEM.”
Against your better judgement, just when you’ve finally recovered from the blow delivered by that hot wind of pike and perch, and have the courage to take a step forward, you’re hit with another blast.
“DOG-SWORDS, HERON-MARKED BLADES OF ANY VARIETY, OBSIDIAN STAVES, AND MOUNTAINS OF GOLD ARE WHAT I WANT.”
The man suddenly falls deathly silent, but you’re the one feeling near death. Forgetting to even consider his offer, you wonder why that man hasn’t just walked to the Pit of Doom to destroy all of the Dark One’s forces, or even the bloody Dark One himself for that matter, just by being the most unpleasant being to have possibly ever existed. You are dismayed when you breath in sharply through your kerchief, yet still smell rotting fish. You take off running, vowing to never set eyes on the shrieking fish-man again. Perhaps you’ll make your offers to him through correspondence. Perhaps the sky is blue.